


We’ll Go No More A-Roving

by GillO



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-28
Updated: 2010-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GillO/pseuds/GillO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between "Lessons" and "Beneath You", Spike loses the Hot Bed-hair of Doom and gains a rather striking blue sweater. This is an exploration of how this came about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He often felt he had a lot in common with the rats. They were predators too, and lived by feeding off the vulnerable, as he had once done. Given half a chance they'd eat him as readily as he drained them. Rats were comfortable; neither he nor they had any illusions about their relationship.

Illusions were where things started to get difficult, he felt. He was never quite sure nowadays what was hallucination and what wasn't. At least with a rat he could be sure. The old git had got that right, if nothing else. He wondered if you got used to the rankness of the taste after a decade or so. Probably stopped giving a toss in the end, stopped tasting anything much – perhaps that was why his sire never bothered to eat human food any more. Too much rat rotted the palate.

And talking of rat, there was a juicy one, staring at him, tempting him from the upturned pail in the corner. If he could only shut the fuck up while approaching this time, he might stand a chance. Zip the lips. Stretch out slowly. Fix the eyes.

Damn it all – the bloody thing moved. He followed, getting closer again. And it moved again. Not sodding funny any more – a bloke got hungry, you know. He lunged, grabbing out at the rodent – and bloody well missed it too. That did it – with a roar that would have impressed his long-dusted minions, and the speed he remembered once taking for granted, he chased the little bugger, round two corners and right to the foot of some steps.

These steps didn't go up into the school, it seemed. There was a faint light, both like and unlike sunlight. There was a fresh scent, like leaves, and under it that of fresh blood too. Not that this sort of blood was any use, not to him, not now. All it did was stir the appetite; no chance he could allow himself to sate it. Yet somehow it drew him, up the stairs, into the light, away from the friendly darkness and the rats. It was only a street-lamp after all – no danger of burning from that. Not quite sure now where or who he was, he stumbled away into the semi-darkness.

  


*****

It was still a sweet pad, the crypt. Clem didn't often bother to go downstairs, where it was impossible to get rid of a faint charred smell, but it made a decent place to store stuff, and the upper room was now provided with all a reasonable demon could want in the way of snacks and entertainment. Tonight was a Farscape marathon, the third in recent months. Despite himself, Clem was hooked by the intriguingly attractive characters, with their interesting body parts arranged in a much more demon-friendly way than was usual on TV. Indeed, he half-wondered if it really was all makeup. A demon ready to work in special effects could have a future in Hollywood.

An armchair, only slightly battered, a bowl of popcorn and he was set for the night.

A strange, slumping sound came from the crypt entrance. Clem ignored it. After dark in a graveyard? He wasn't such a fool that he would go to meet trouble. Besides, people, demons and Slayers usually burst in if they really wanted to see him. After two or three minutes he could hear a muttering noise. Not threatening – if anything, it was irritating – but distracting enough to make the demon struggle out of the chair, place the bowl carefully on the floor and move with surprising delicacy towards the door.

Through a crack in the wood he could just make out a rambling litany of disconnected language. "A place to be. A place for a man. A man with a plan for a place with space to be and see." He knew that voice.

"Spike! Gosh! It is so great to see you! You're back! How good is that? It's a Farscape marathon tonight. You are so going to love these characters you know! How've you been? I've got popcorn here, and I think there's a beer left in the fridge, and we can get in pizza if you…" The excited voice trailed off. "Hey, buddy, you look in a bad way. Not that the bed hair isn't a good look on you, it is, and black's always been your colour…"

Unseeing, his guest stumbled past him, past the chair, the bowl, the TV. At the sarcophagus he sank to the ground, head bowed, shoulders turned to hide his face. Clem hovered, concern and sympathy crinkling his face even more. "Gosh, pal, you really don't look so good. Why not sit over here? Can I get you something? A wet cloth perhaps? Still having those headaches, huh?"

"No. No, no. No more a roving. Right? Late into the night? Too late for that now. Too late for loving and moving and roving. Bad man now, not a good boy, not William any more. Though the heart be still as – not beating. Heart be still. Still as still." A strange sound, something between a hiccup and a chuckle, but very muffled, reached Clem's ears.

"You still have issues with the Slayer, Spike? Still fighting the old trouble? Hey, d'you think it's maybe time to rethink? Sweet girl, I know, but was it really meant? Is it right for you is all I'm asking."

"Can't ask, can't tell. Don't tell. Won't tell. Too heavy to carry. Too bright." The vampire looked up, that strange intensity in his eyes catching Clem off-guard.

Suddenly Clem drew in a sharp breath. Was that? Could it be? His eyes narrowed, he stooped and gripped Spike's chin, not harshly but enough to enable him to tilt the face upward. "Spike! What have you done? Where'd you go? How'd you…?"

"Where's your manners? Not nice to make personal remarks. Not good style. Beneath you, beneath me. Not a problem; it's only a spark, just a little flicker of light. It hurts. It hurts all the time. Didn't know that. Not polite to say. Not correct. A true man, a true gentleman, must be correct. Must be right for her."

Beads gathered on Clem's forehead and ran down the runnels of his face onto his dewlaps. Where to go from here? Nice guy, Spike, but, whoo, was he out of his league with this one. A gentle hand under Spike's elbow, a lifting motion and, thank the Powers, he was standing, more or less, stumbling and finally sitting in the armchair. "You stay here, Spike, OK? Here, hold the popcorn and the remote. I'll be right back – don't you go away, now." One harried glance round and the floppy-faced demon was away. Spike was slumped, cradling the popcorn bowl, whispering to it from time to time. Go away? It didn't look like he had the energy to move even a hand unassisted.

*****

The door creaked open slowly. An unearthly creature pushed through the widening gap.

A mound of packages, boxes and loose bags heralded the arrival of the Slayer, her most important mission accomplished. The stores of Sunnydale would remember her visit for some while. An actual income – well, pending – meant that shopping was once again an option – and what red-blooded Slayer could overlook that?

Dawn started up from the sofa at the sight of the superpowered loot. "Buffy! I wondered where you'd been. I shoulda guessed, huh? What'd you get me?

"Who says there is anything for you?"

The Teenage Face of Doom glared back at her. Just lurking at the corners of her mouth was a smile, but there was no doubt whatsoever that business was meant. Giving up the impossible struggle, Buffy pulled out a few familiar-styled packages and handed them over. It had been so long since she'd been able to indulge her sister.

With a squeal Dawn pounced on the sophisticated gold bag and the pink-and-white striped carry-all. Her sort of homecoming!

"There's a DVD too. I thought we could have some chill time tonight?"

"Prezzies and sisterly chat about a day at school? That sounds like, well, normal. Do we do that here? What was the day like?"

"Not as hellmouthy as I expected."

" Perhaps it's all gone what is the word? Dormouse? "

Buffy searched for the word for a moment, then dismissed it. Dormouse would do. "There were the normal demons of acne and teen angst. Nothing out of the ordinary. And absolutely no insane bursting into class. I'm not doing that again, promise."

"I admit you may, just may, have had a point then. But no more, not ever, right?"

"I just said so, didn't I?"

Resolutely pushing memories of the unscheduled basement visit to the back of her mind, Buffy settled down to an evening of sisterly bickering, chocolate goodness and chick-flicks. Perhaps there could be such a thing as a normal life for Summers women… just occasionally.

*****

Outside the crypt – oh dear, would he have to offer it back now? – Clem paused in thought for a moment, and then scurried diagonally across the cemetery to a half-concealed gate. He knew the perfect people, but he really, really hoped they'd do house-calls. Spike didn't look as if he would be going anywhere under his own steam anytime soon, for sure and certain.

A mere twenty minutes later Clem stood outside the crypt door with two red-faced horned demons and another, mostly green, though with red eyes and horns, carrying a suit bag in one overlarge fist. From within came a steady sound, wavering in pitch but not volume. "The sword outwears. In the end everything outwears. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest. Rest? There has been no rest. Not here. Not allowed rest here." It was time to interrupt. No point in scaring off the makeover crew and wasting those hard-won kitties.

Carefully, to avoid spooking his unexpected guest, Clem pushed open the door. Spike was still exactly where he had been left, clutching the remote and the popcorn,

Clem ushered in his brood of style demons and firmly closed the door. They bustled forward,. and stopped, their eyes widening, some small tentacles waving frantically from Green Guy's head.

"Ah. I guess you spotted it, huh? Don't worry – he's as harmless as they come. Well, hey, still a hundred-year-old vampire with fangs and all, but he won't hurt you. I promise."

A surprisingly high-pitched voice responded: "This creature has a soul. That is just so disgusting. If it wasn't that I needed those tabbies, man, you would so be one heap of gloop and entrails right now."

Nervously, Clem smiled. "Guys, guys, we're all cool here, right? No big, huh? Just spruce the man up a bit – you can see he's in need of your talents. Then you can go, no questions, just juicy kitties."

Wordless eye-rolls passed between the three style leaders. There was perceptible loin-girding. Then, determination in their faces if not their body language, they advanced. They had been well-briefed. Peroxide appeared, and clippers. Heavy, metal restraints, too – and the vampire, strapped down, if not for his own safety then for that of his cosmeticians, began to undergo the process of transformation.

The trickiest bit, Clem afterwards decided, wasn't the hair, the nails, or even the shaving. It was the clothing. Nutso Spike seemed almost calm as they combed his hair. The trimming produced no more than a slight glint of yellow in the eyes. He relaxed into the presumably-familiar sting of the bleach, almost purring as they showed him a Polaroid of his restored blond looks. They took the risk of releasing the handcuffs in order to dress him. At that point the garment bag was opened and a heap of clothes cascaded out – a sombre collection conforming with the vampire's usual monotonous sartorial tastes. Now, however, it seemed that something had changed. The black denim passed muster with little more than a whimper, but the first sight of a black tee made the face contort into a scream, followed by a howl of agony at the appearance of a red shirt. Clearly this was a problem.

"Spike, buddy, what's the trouble? Bleach still stinging?" Clem nodded wisely. Spike had never mentioned it, but that amount of peroxide on a regular basis just had to smart.

"Black! No black. No blood colour. No blood and black. It's the Bad Man. He wore black. Shiny tiles, grey robe, black, black and hurting." More screams. Clem motioned to the waiting demon to move the tangle of shirts out of the way. Frantic signals produced a tentative move from the style guru.

"Mr Spike? How about this? Lovely colour. I hadn't thought it was your sort of thing, but it slipped in somehow. It would pick out your eyes nicely."

"Eyes? Pick them out? Like Oedipus? Gloucester? Yes. Good." The nails scrabbled towards the haunted blue eyes.

"No! Not that way! Hold him, please – quickly!" Clem and the red demons lunged for the restraints. The distraught vampire lunged this way and that, his wrists slipping from their grasp as if oiled. One red stylist hit the wall. Goodness but that would sting in the morning. Finally the remaining two managed to pin him down and clamp the manacles back on.

"Mr Spike? Can you hear me? The blue shirt? It accentuates your beautiful eyes. That's all I meant." The green demon was shaking slightly. A whole tubful of tabbies wouldn't be enough to get him back here once he was done. Wincing at the clash of the vibrant blue against his own skin tones, he waved the garment. Clem grabbed it.

Just how do you get a tight, stretchy shirt onto a writhing vampire in manacles? Very, very carefully. This style makeover was becoming less fun by the minute.

"Spike? Stay still, will you? Suffering cats! This is hard. Hey, P'tork, you grip his wrist while I hold the sleeve open. When I give the word, open the cuff just a touch."

Clem did his best to talk soothingly as the team wrestled the blue shirt onto an arm, over the head, onto the other arm. Possibly not the best working order, but it had the advantage of keeping the head trapped under the neck longest. You never knew with vamps.

His visitors, job done at last, seemed to be edging towards the door.

"Thanks guys. The kitties will be there for you tomorrow. I really appreciate it. You sure you won't stay for a beer or something? I've got nachos too…"

Panicked glances flickered between three very shaky visitors. Clem was the most hospitable creature alive – but none of them could be comfortable snacking quite so close to such an unpredictable and dangerous individual as Spike. Even without the radiance of the soul – and what was that about? – this was clearly a creature of power, a Master Vampire. "No, really. You're too kind, but we have to be going. Things to see, people to do. Same old, same old – you know."

"Oh. I understand. Thanks for all your help, boys. Be seeing you." Before the final sentence was completed, the door had slammed shut and Clem was once again alone with his friend. Spike, clean, white-haired and clothed, was back in his corner, rocking gently and murmuring softly to himself. That was not good.

"So. Old buddy. How you been doing?"

A look of withering contempt pinned him to the spot. "OK, OK, I get that. Let's try another one, shall we? Where have you been?"

"Away."

"Well, you're back now." Ask him about the crypt, Clem. "The town felt kinda quiet without you." Not the best conversational gambit he'd made of late. But Spike seemed not to notice.

"Something's wrong about this town. Always been bloody wrong if you ask me. But now it's worse."

The sanest statement all evening. Pity it was about just the topic Clem would much rather avoid. What demon hadn't noticed? Something big was brewing – and that meant big even by the standards of Hellmouth Central. Boy, was that big. "I know what you mean. Things feel kinda wrong again, don't they?"

"Wrong? I hurt the girl. That was wrong. Can't ever be right, that. But this is different wrong. Big wrong."

Gulping, Clem tried to puzzle out the meaning of the rambling. Hurt the girl? Now there was something to ponder on later. Just now, though, there was a vampire in pain. Or confusion. Most likely both. "You can feel it's different, right? It's not felt like this since that Glory woman left town. And she was one kooky lady. This is even worse. You know, pal…"

The silence, delicately left for Spike, remained unfilled. No help was going to come from there, then. "You know, if it's bad, there's someone it's going to hit bad. Buffy might want help. Look, I don't know what went on between you and her…"

"No, and not gonna know either, chum. But Buffy won't want help from me, whoever else."

Startled, Clem moved towards the shaking man in the corner. "But she brought Dawn round for you to look after, just before things got really weird. Again." Now that got a response. A jerk of the head, then a sudden stillness. "She did? Never thought the bint would want anything to do with me again after..." He paused for a beat. "Weird? How so?"

"End-of-the-worldy weird. You know. Stuff happened."

"So is that what's wrong now. Is that what you're saying? Dawn in trouble?" Suddenly Clem felt crowded. The shivering wreck in the corner was all at once towering over him, glaring out of eyes that somehow seemed completely sane. Excessively so. How did he do that so suddenly?

"No, nothing like that, that was all sorted out a while back. No, this is new. Can't you feel it?"

"Feel it? The demon's under control, not dead in me. Of course I can feel it. You think Buffy needs help?" There was complete coherence now, a total focus that was even more disturbing than the demented ramblings of a few minutes ago.

"Look. Whatever happened. I'm real sorry. You maybe don't want to have a lot to do with her again? But she's a sweet girl, Spike, and this thing that's coming – could be too big for her on her own."

"Beneath you. From beneath you it devours. Right?"

"You know that, Spike." All the demons in town recognized that turn of phrase.

"Gotta go. Gotta help the girl, give her service. Gotta be the man she needs. Be a man."

As Clem moved to reply, he realized there was little point. A twist of blue, a flash of peroxide white and the doorway was open and empty. He was on his own. Ah well. Picking up the popcorn, not even soft yet, he settled down to Farscape.

He'd done what he could, after all.

*****

Visions of white tiles, a grey robe, a horrified realization, flooded his memory. No, there was no possible way he could go in there. Prowling was what he did best, right? Prowling could be done here. There was really no need to disturb the inhabitants of the unassuming suburban house as long as he could just stand watch.

It was possible to see a few stars despite the glow from the streetlights and the downtown area. The tree was still there, still a support for the back of any vampire who might just want to stand and watch for some reason. There was something very strange about the sidewalk, however. It smelled odd and looked odder. Something was definitely moving beneath there. Clem had been right. There was a need for help.

"Buffy. You need me. Look, you knew what I am. What did you expect? How was I to know? But it's all over now. Can't you forgive me?" No. Bloody stupid to say that. Pointless. A good way to get a fist in the nose, but no way to forge a team.

"Buffy. We can still work together. I know you need help. I'm here for you." Right. Straight out of some teen flick, that.

"Buffy. I'll do anything to help you. I was so wrong. Can't we just start again?" Oh yes. That was the best yet. The girl needs help, you wanker, not a pile of dust to sweep up, which is all there'd be if you went in with that ruddy line. Best to make it up as he went along, really. After all, he'd known the girl for years. It couldn't be that hard, could it?

Who was he trying to kid? Only the hardest thing he'd done in a century and more. But that didn't offer him any sort of out. It still needed to be done. A dozen demons to fight would be easier – not to mention much more fun – but the girl had to be faced.

A deep swallow. A deeper breath – unnecessary but steadying. Now for it. He walked towards the front of the house. Perhaps there'd been a lockout spell? Back door, then – he'd look just a touch less stupid if he couldn't get in there – and human locks were also an issue. Just a gentle push, and if he couldn't get in, at least he'd tried.

 

When the door swung away from him as he turned the handle, he honestly didn't know whether he was pleased or disappointed. Expecting to be repelled by an invisible wall, he stepped forward – and through the entrance. No disinvite? Why ever not? It's what he would have done in her place. After… Just after.

There was talking audible from the living room. Once in the hall he paused and sniffed. Familiar scents – the Slayer, obviously. Her sister, that irritating boy – and another. Female, frightened if the heartbeat was anything to go by. He focused on the words.

"Look, Nancy, we're going to get into this. And I promise you, if your dog is alive, we're going to find him. The only thing that I need is a little—"

Well, if ever a bloke had a cue, this had to be it. "What you need is help. Fortunately, you've got me."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes Spike on, through _Lessons_ to some sort of partial rest. Slightly AU timing of Giles's return to Sunnydale.

Clem slumped ever lower in the comfy armchair. The popcorn was more than half gone, Farscape was going well, all was nearly right with the world. Then the door slammed open in a way that could only mean one person.

"Hey, Buffy! Welcome! There's popcorn – why'ncha pull up a chair?"

That was an opening that was going to fool no-one. She never entered without a reason.

"Clem, I need you. Now!"

There were times you could argue with Buffy. This was not one of them. "Right, yes, of course. Right with you, Buffy. Er – where?"

"Just come, OK?" There was a strange expression on her face. And was that a tear there? No way was he going to ask, though. Oh boy, no!

Clem had to put on a burst of speed, such as it was, even to stay level with her strides. A tiny thing like that could sure move fast. Across the cemetery, through the gap in the fence, across the road and – into a church? Even for Buffy, this was asking a little much, wasn't it? Taking care not to touch anything – he might not be a vampire, but who knew what this stuff could do? – he followed the Slayer.

There was a strange, musty, smoky smell in the building. In the dim light which was all the coloured windows afforded, it was difficult to make out what was there – until something white moved into his peripheral vision.

"Spike?" Aghast, he looked more closely. All that care of a few hours previously, all those kitties, and what for? As crazy as when he'd started, Spike stalked around the room, not looking where he was going, his pale flesh marred by contusions and scorch marks. As he watched, Clem began to grasp why. The crazy man was paying no attention to where he was going, careering off walls, tombs, monuments. In a place like this it was the equivalent to putting a toddler to play with knives. Every second contact Spike made seemed to be with a cross, or holy water, or some relic. No wonder there was a stench of smouldering vampire flesh.

At that moment, Spike bounced off a nearby wall and half-spun towards his friend. Clem had seen a fair few unpleasant things in his life, up to and including eviscerations, but this made him suck in his breath from shock. The smooth, chiseled abdomen he had seen only hours before was a slab of raw meat, bloody, scorched traced across with line after line. The chest, the pectoral muscles, the biceps – all the same. Suddenly he realized why – this was a church. Near the altar was a large cross, slightly stained around the edges. There was a good reason for those stains.

Hugging himself, raw hands to rawer flesh, Spike cowered down into a corner.

Buffy turned to Clem; for a moment she looked helpless,. "Help me lift him, huh?"

"Help? That's the problem, you know. I wanted to help. To be a man who helped, who could help, who could be good. " Spike laughed – only he, alone in all the world, could see the joke. "Good for you, don't you see. I can make it good for you, baby." He twisted his head; on his face was an appalling mockery of a leer, the tongue touching the teeth, the eyes intensely focused on her. He lurched to his feet.

Buffy lunged towards him, catching him as he toppled towards the floor. "Clem! Use some help here?"

"I got it. Spike, fella, hang on to me." Clem rammed his shoulder under the vampire's armpit. There was an agonized scream. "Uh – I'm sorry, pal. Don't wanna hurt ya. Can't do it any other way, though. We'll soon have you back in the crypt, safe in bed"

"Bed? I can't sleep. They won't let me sleep. The voices in the dark, they talk to me, they remind me, they tell me what I am. They hate me. You hate me too. So does God, but that's a given. I'm a Bad Man, Buffy. A pathetic little bad man."

Buffy gripped him firmly round the waist, ignoring his flinches, though wincing to herself as she did so. "C'mon, Spike. Time to go."

"For the sword outwears its sheath and the soul wears out the breast. Bloody poet got it right. Original bleedin' brooder from all accounts. But he knew. He knew."

"That's enough, Spike. Quiet now. Calm down now."

Suddenly docile, he rested his gaunt frame on their shoulders and allowed himself to be half-led, half-carried from the building.

******

Somehow, the Slayer and her demon friend managed to manoeuvre the dead weight back to the crypt. Probably mercifully, Spike had lost consciousness not long after they entered the cemetery, and the tricky and potentially painful task of lowering him to the undercroft was achieved without his awareness or further suffering.

Once down there, Buffy looked around. Clem was clearly uncomfortable, fluttering around, pushing torn, stained and charred objects into corners. For a moment Buffy felt a twinge of guilt. Riley. What had that all been about? It seemed so very long ago now. Long ago and irrelevant.

Clem shifted from one foot to another. "Look, Buffy, I – I really gotta go. I have people to meet – guys I owe stuff to. You'll be OK here, right? There's soda in the fridge and snacks…" He tailed off. Not the most tactful of demons, even he grasped snacks were not quite the cure-all this time.

"I'll be fine. Just throw down a rag or two, will ya?"

And then she was alone with him. She moved towards the ruined bed, unthinkingly pulling the throw to cover the worst of the blackened damage. She piled some pillows in the centre and dragged a rug (that rug) to cover them. That should be soft enough.

An almost inaudible moan attracted her attention. No longer unconscious, her companion was squatting, feet planted wide apart, head clutched in his hands, rocking back and forth. He looked up at the ceiling. He looked into the darkest corner. He was so obviously looking anywhere but at her.

Despite her original intentions, Buffy reached out to him. "Spike? What is it?"

Still avoiding eye contact, he twisted away.

Fingers could speak as much as eyes, though, and she rested her hand lightly on an unburnt patch of his shoulder. "Come now, Spike. Time to rest." Gently she lifted him and laid him on the bed.

"No! Mustn't touch. Touching is Bad. I'm Bad. Did bad things." He pushed up, his face contorting as he did so.

"I have to touch, Spike. I have to clean you up. Just lie still."

"Still? Be still my heart. Still as loving. Always still heart. Moon's still as bright."

"Are you nuts? What is this?"

"Told you, pet. Nuts here. Crazy and loopy and loony and potty. Nothing changed there."

"Just shut up Spike. Make it easier for both of us, OK? And 'potty'? So not going there."

"Slayer, I may be crazy, but there's times you're more nuts than I am."

At this point, exhausted by the strain of maintaining the banter and even an approximation of sanity, Spike lost consciousness. Just as well, Buffy thought grimly, continuing the gruesome task of removing the caked blood, the charcoaled flesh and wiping down the few patches of smooth skin. A silent vampire who couldn't argue back had to be of the good. This once at least.

******

Whenever she could slink away from her friends Buffy visited Spike. The vampire was sick and miserable and needed her. That was all the justification she needed and all the explanation she was prepared to give even to herself. She took him blood in bags and beer in bottles, and held both to his mouth until his hands had healed enough for him to grip them. She mopped the oozing sores with tepid water and wrapped him in a soft blanket, though she could not for her very life have explained what good that would do someone with no internal body temperature.

Clem hovered, ineffectually, for most of this time. Presumably he slept somewhere in the crypt – she didn't ask and he didn't tell. When she needed him to help turn the recumbent form he was there; otherwise he was discreetly absent.

Initially, Buffy talked and Spike listened, when he was able to focus enough. Even as he drifted in and out of awareness he treasured the sound of her voice and the unaccustomed gentleness of her tone. In snatches, he pieced together the astonishing story of what had happened while he had been away. Tara, Willow, Dawn – the familiar names in the most unfamiliar situations. So, Red had finally gone totally doolally, had she? Couldn't say he was surprised. Bob the Builder saving the day – now that was bizarre, even for Sunnyhell. Couldn't say he was bothered about what happened to that bunch of losers; a soul couldn't actually make you care for wastes of skin like that. But Tara, now – that was a shame. He'd not had a lot to do with her, but what he had seen had been good, decent, gentle.

This phase lasted only as long as he was forced to remain supine, however. As he recovered he became more taciturn. She visited less often, and asked him fewer questions. He spoke less and grunted more. The day he struggled up the ladder to greet her in the upper room was the last time she descended to the lower space.

The next day he was alert, waiting for the sound of the crash of the door. Right on schedule it came. Would that bint never learn to open the door quietly? Before he knew what he was doing he had surged up the ladder with a roar.

Caught in the act of opening the fridge, Buffy turned, an expression of surprise on her face.

"Slayer."

"Spike."

Suddenly, all the wariness was back. Inwardly cursing his still-stiff muscles, he moved towards her. "Still playing Lady Bountiful, then?"

"Still visiting the sick and useless, yes. What do you want, Spike?"

"Oh, right. I get it. I'm your charity case, now. That it? Well, looky here. The useless vampire's among the walking dead again. You can push off now if that's what you want."

"Big with the gratitude, huh?"

"Oh pardon me. Thank you, your worshipful Slayerness. I am not worthy to touch the dust beneath your feet. That good enough for you? Now you can push off. Don't need you any more."

Bewildered, Buffy turned big eyes towards him. Was this all? Rage boiled up, pushing hurt and confusion way to the back. "That's it! You stupid, useless bleached excuse for a menace! I am so out of here!"

"I don't need your pity, girl. Push off to your little Scooby-pals. I'll be ready to help when I'm some use to you again. Now sodding well go!" He leant back against the wall, watching her storm away. So easy to rile, his girl. He'd be ready enough to be of value to her soon. Till then, she had better things to do with her time. Like having a life while she still could.

******

There was nothing quite so relaxing as good music, good whisky and good company, and just now Giles had all three. Willow was well into recovery mode, and her sharp intelligence and eclectic mind made her a good companion for a Watcher. There were few topics on which she had no opinion, and fewer still that didn't interest and intrigue her. Just now she was browsing the internet on her beloved laptop, for all the world the shy teenager he had once known.

Rosie Lyon's voice soared into the last track on the old college folk record he'd put on. Real vinyl, three decades old, the voices so full of youth and innocent enthusiasm, just like his current companion had once been.

_So we'll go no more a-roving  
So late into the night,  
Though the heart still be as loving,  
And the moon still be as bright._

Oddly, the sleeve notes referred to the song as "traditional". Giles knew better, and found it ironic. Byron had been the original bad boy, Mr Broody himself, so the irony of this sweet song of love and loss was not lost on him.

Idly he wondered if the broody poet had ever encountered the ultimate broody vampire. Angel must have been in Europe around then, and Byron and his pals had sown scandal across Europe for some memorable months. Come to think of it, Byron's friend Polidori had written a vampire tale with some remarkably accurate details in it.

_For the sword outwears its sheath,  
And the soul outwears the breast,  
And the heart must pause to breathe,  
And love itself have rest._

Byron hadn't really lived long enough to know that, had he? Unless it was simply a useful line for one of his many exes. Though to be fair he hadn't usually been so subtle in giving them the push. Poor Caro Lamb, slashing her wrists in despair.

Giles shook himself out of his literary musings. Such speculation, however enjoyable, was more pointless than most activities. He sipped at the aged Laphroaig in his hand and allowed himself a touch of pride in the progress of his protégé since their arrival some weeks before. Her magic skills and control had improved remarkably, but far more important was the development in her moral understanding, her readiness to accept responsibility for the past and for the power she now realised she held in trust.

The ring of a telephone startled him out of his musings. "Rupert Giles. Hello?"

"Giles? I need help."

"Buffy? What's the matter?"

"Funny things are happening. I know you need time with Willow, but I really think we need you here. Something big is going on."

"Calm down a moment. What's the problem?"

"Where can I start? There's something strange. All the demons seem to know it. I'm getting terrible Slayer dreams, and Spike's back, even more bizarre than ever."

"Spike?" Giles's voice sharpened, "Buffy, are you taking care?"

"Yes, yes, of course I am. But he's strange, Giles. Something's really changed. He has a soul."

Giles jerked almost out of his seat. "A soul? How? What? When…" He tailed off, incoherently.

"Giles, I really don't know. He's in a bad shape, though. And Anya confirms the soul, too. For what that's worth. She's up to some bad tricks again too. Giles, we need you. Badly."

"Well, I was about to suggest Willow was ready to spend some time with you people. I can bring her back myself if you like?"

"I like? Oh boy do I like!"

******

Clem came back to the vault cheerfully, carrying a sack of salty cheesy snacks. The moment he entered the door, though, he realised that something was just – off. It was all just too quiet. Once again he had the crypt to himself, it seemed. He checked downstairs. No sign of anything undead there either.

Should he tell Buffy? She hadn't been round lately. Perhaps later. Spike was old enough to cope, and of late possibly even sane enough.

There were snacks to store away and the Ti-Vo to install. Clem would let the Slayer know. Tomorrow.

There had been time to carry out his initial plan, but not enough time to do more when the crypt door slammed open in an all-too-familiar way.

"Buffy. Good to see ya. Spike's not in, I'm afraid. Sit down, why don't you?"

"Not in?"

"No – he wasn't here when I got in. I haven't been around for a day or two, not seeing as you were spending so much time with him."

A strangled noise came from the Slayer's companion. "What?"

"Giles. I have no time for this. I cared for him while he was unwell. He threw me out. That's all."

"No doubt there was an excellent reason for telling me none of this too."

"There was. It was my business. And Spike's."  
"I rather think that since you called me half-way round the planet it might be considered mine too. Where is he now, then? "

"Clem?"

"Gee, Buffy, how should I know? Where he was before he came here?"

Before he could offer alternatives, the Slayer and her Watcher had vanished. Clem dragged shut the door, now nearly detached from its hinges. However cool his current abode was, Slayer visitations were a distinct drawback at times.

******

In the school basement the rats had multiplied once more. A distinct absence of predators over a week or more had encouraged them to get careless. It was easy enough to snag three or four, drain them, throw away the carcases. So this was what Captain Forehead had seen in the tasty little delicacies. The total absence of anything tasty, to start with. A good metaphor for hitting the bottom of the heap for another. Rats were right for him just now. Back to the beginning, no difference to those weeks ago.

Weeks ago. A week ago? How long since he'd driven her off? Why hadn't she come back? Worse than ever. As the sores on the outside healed, it just made those on the inside hurt more. And the heart fallen out of the whole game.

There were moments of lucidity, just long enough for him to realise how bad a state he was in. Then the pain crowded back in again and he lost it once more. At times he let go and talked to all his visitors, tell them about his love, his loss. Sometimes he even thought the visitors might really be there.

******

Buffy and Giles trod carefully down the steps. At his insistence he carried a crossbow and she a stake. Even after he had worked out the detail from her convoluted explanations, he had been unconvinced. A vampire seeking out a soul of his own volition? It had to be a trick. And even if he had? Vivid memories of Angelus, of Jenny and the rose were quite enough to haunt him. A souled vampire was an unstable vampire, and an unstable vampire was better off dust, for everyone's sake.

The initial joy of Giles's arrival had faded swiftly into this first argument. Willow had hung back, unsure of her welcome and seemingly afraid to hazard an opinion in the suddenly supercharged atmosphere, but Giles seemed to have forgotten entirely that reticence was supposed to be a key feature of an Englishman's job description. His forthright opinions on Buffy's care of the former Scourge of Europe had very nearly led to a breach. One serious enough to send him straight back to Wiltshire. Buffy's training session had led to the destruction of several inoffensive pieces of equipment as a direct result. The heavy load of weaponry was the final compromise.

 

They heard him before they saw him. Not exactly unusual for Spike. "Spark. Got the spark now. Why didn't anyone TELL ME? The night was made for loving. Creature of the night here. All dark and fangy. Made for lovin', right? Made for love and hearts and flowers. Graveyard flowers. Rotting in a heap. Rue for you. Flowers and herbs and spices. Always liked the spices."

Giles winced. The rambling was full of arcane allusions but the condition of the vampire was far from obscure. Anything with that level of threat and that level of sanity really ought not to be left in a school basement. Or anywhere else in this dimension, but that was a lost fight, for now at least.

"You win, Buffy." A sigh and a pained look. "He really shouldn't be here. I don't suppose the proximity of the Hellmouth is doing him much good at all. Let's go in and get him."

To his surprise he felt his hand swiftly squeezed. "Thank you, Giles. This means a lot, you know. I understand the risks, but I just feel we're going to need him. If we can find him in there, that is."

"He's a menace, Buffy. Let me go in first. If he tries anything…"

"If he tries anything I am quite certain I can cope. Hello, Slayer here, remember? Now is so not the time to go all Lancelot on me. I'll call if I need you."

Giles waited. The spectacles were there for just such a purpose. Cleaning them helped control his irritation, as it had done many times before.

******

Behind the scratched metal shelving Spike's voice acted as a beacon. "She went away. She had to go, had to find the light. Day returns too soon, no good in the day. Don't give up the day job. Where's your authorization? Gotta hide. Not allowed in the halls. Not allowed in the light. Moonlight becomes me, it goes with my hair. Goes with your hair too, pet."

Buffy jumped at the sudden coherence in his voice. Had he really recognised her? It seemed unlikely in view of the insano maunderings, but it was a start.

"Spike. What are you doing here?"

"Where I belong, luv. Not in the light. You glow, I lurk. Buried with the flowers."

"I so do not have time for this."

"Talking to me? Words. Words, words. Some rhyme. Gotta find a rhyme. If it doesn't rhyme there's no reason, you see, and no reason means no point. No point to me, no point for you."

"Spike, listen to me. This is the wrong place for you. Come with me."

The sudden intensity of his gaze disconcerted her. "Pity for the cellar dweller, luv? I don't think so. It's here, you know. Beneath you, here. This thing in me, it devours me, but this thing, beneath you – that's worse."

"It's worse for you. You need to be somewhere safer."

"And blue eyes meet green across a crowded room? Why do you care, huh? Why bother? Just leave me with the beasties, where I belong."

"You're better than that, Spike. I'm going to need your strength. You told me so, remember? " Reaching forward, feather-light, she rested her fingertips on his arm.

He jumped back and threw his arms up to shield his face. "No, no good. You know what I did. You know too much. I'm no help, you know."

There are times when an eye-roll is the only reply possible. That and a sigh. Buffy gave Spike the megawatt glare of both together. "That's enough, Spike. You're coming back with me, where I can watch you." She'd argued this long and hard with Giles. No way was she taking the same stupid line from Spike too. More firmly this time, she rested her hand on his arm, tugged till he responded.

"Come on, Spike. Come home with me."

And, to her surprise and his own, he rose, took the proffered hand, and followed her.

 

_Though the night was made for loving,  
And the day returns too soon,  
Yet we'll go no more a-roving  
By the light of the moon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written in March 2006, for the Live Journal comm Seasonal Spuffy.


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